


Tales of Ishvala

by GuestPlease



Series: Scar's Adventures Five Years Later [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Children's Stories, Diplomacy, F/M, Found Family, Gen, I'll add more people as they appear, Original Mythology, Scar acquiring children, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:34:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24868441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuestPlease/pseuds/GuestPlease
Summary: It's five years after the Promised Day, and Scar has to go to Xing for the Emperor's wedding-- both as part of his job on the diplomacy side, and because his not-daughter wants him there.He has also been getting in touch with his culture a bit more since the Mustang wedding-- a culture of stories, after all. And what good are stories if no one is there to hear them? ...even if he has to tell these stories to people from outside his own culture.
Relationships: Denny Brosh/Maria Ross (mentioned), Edward Elric/Winry Rockbell, Lan Fan/Ling Yao, Mei Chan | May Chang & Scar, Miles & Scar (Fullmetal Alchemist)
Series: Scar's Adventures Five Years Later [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1799401
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	1. The Djinn in the Garden-- The Brosh kids

Technically, Scar was _fine_ with crossing a desert on his own. Well, with Miles, but the point was—no guide.  
Miles disagreed, because he was used to ice and snow. Scar had argued that that was a different kind of desert, since both the tundra and the regular desert had sparse vegetation and little fresh, running water.  
Scar and Miles had since been separated.

To explain; the Emperor of Xing’s wedding was in about a week. Guides between Amestris and Xing had likely been planning to make a killing off of all the diplomats and politicians and blah blah blah Scar didn’t care. _Their_ guide, a man named Paolo, from Creta, had unfortunately had to go home because sick grandmother something something ran away from a wedding something something dueling a brother for the hand of a woman. (Scar had not been listening, Scar had been studying the map and deciding that yes, he _could_ do it, wait, where are you going Miles—). That is how Scar and Miles ended up lumped in with the next group going out. For this betrayal, Miles was firmly relegated to family name territory again.

Miles got to ride up near the front with the _real_ adults. This was waved off as ‘oh, we have military things to discuss and you’re great with kids’ which was a _lie_. Scar was not good with children. And besides, Scar had probably never even met these military people before so they shouldn’t hate him on sight. But no, he was stuck back there with the children.

“Why do you look like that?” One of the children asked.  
“Because I’m an Ishvalan.”  
“Why’re you an Ishvalan?”  
“Because I was born as one, and I choose to follow Ishvala?”

“Who’s Shvala?”  
“ _Ish_ vala is the god of my land.”  
“Like how Leto is the god of Liore?” Another, older child asked.

“Yes.” Scar replied tersely. “Like the false god of Liore.”  
“So Shvala’s a false god?” The first child asked.  
“No, _Leto_ is a false god.” Scar corrected.

“ _My_ teacher said that they were very similar and there might have been some kind of interchangability given how violently both reacted.” The oldest child said, fairly snootily.  
Scar ground his teeth. “Do _not_ compare us to them. But yes, you’re right. Forces from the centre of Amestris came in and ensured that both Ishval and Liore were soaked in blood.”  
“My _teacher_ said that there was evidence that Ishvala and Leto were interchangable.” The oldest child said.

“Ishvala give me strength…” Scar muttered. “No. No they are not. And you know why? Because the Northern people of Ishval were pressed up against the southern border of Liore, before both became part of Amestris. And they had mythology that involved _both_.”  
“How do you know that?” The youngest child asked.  
“Because he’s an Ishvalan.” The middle child replied. “Don’t be stupid, Kenneth.”

The youngest made a face at the older one. “I’m not stupid! Daddy said you can’t call me stupid!”  
“Then don’t be stupid!” The middle one shot back.  
The eldest rolled their eyes instead of being helpful.

“Shush!” Scar ordered.  
The children shushed.  
“I know it because I was trained as a monk of Ishvala, and therefore, I had to know all of the regional stories.” Scar explained. “I know the stories of the matriarchs of the south-east, and Ishvala’s marriage to Leto in the north. I know the stories of the lost garden in the west, and how, at the very southernmost tip, they say that when Ishvala walked the Earth, their steps drained the sea and raised the land from the water.”

There was a pause, then the youngest child asked, “Are you going to tell us any?”  
“No.” Scar replied bluntly.  
“Why?” The oldest asked.

“Because you’re strange children, and these are important and sacred stories.”  
“Well—you’re a strange man!” One of the children huffed.  
Scar raised an eyebrow. “Then I suppose we have nothing else to discuss, as your parents have likely told you not to speak to strangers.”

“We don’t have parents.” The eldest said, straightening in a way that was clearly meant to be imperious.  
“ _That_ one invoked the name of his father.” Scar pointed at the youngest.  
The oldest child sniffed, and lowered their hood. It was a girl, about 12 ish, with blonde hair and green eyes. “That’s Kenneth. He’s our nephew.”  
The two other children lowered their hoods—and yes, the youngest had darker hair and eyes than the other two.

“I’m Melanie Brosh.” The girl continued. “That’s Benny, he’s our littlest brother. Kenneth is Denny’s son, Denny’s the eldest.” After a pause, Melanie added, “And there’s Lenny and Penny and Jenny, but Penny and Jenny live in Creta, and Lenny’s _finding himself_ , and they’re not coming.”  
“Why are _you_ coming?” Scar asked.  
“’Cause Maria’s great friends with the Empress, and she said to bring her family. And Penny and Jenny couldn’t look after us, and Maria was going to cancel, but the Empress said ‘I told you to bring your family, bring your sister and brother in law as well’.” Benny broke in.

“…pull your hoods back up, you’ll give yourselves sunstroke.” Scar said. “And she’s not the Empress yet.”  
Melanie shrugged, but pulled her hood back up. Benny did so as well, and to his credit, helped Kenneth—had they been trying to name the child Kenny? They _had_ , hadn’t they? Scar would _never_ understand the Amestrian tradition of theme names—since they were sharing a camel.

“So now will you tell us a story?” Kenneth asked, dark eyes wide.  
Scar sighed, and glanced towards the rest of the group. Clearly, the rest of the adults were relying on _him_ to make sure that nothing bad happened to the ragamuffins. He could hear snatches of Miles discussing military business with the guardians on the wind.

“Fine.” Scar said. “But you must be good children. There are no dragons, or anything like that in this story. There are no princesses.”  
Melanie scrunched her face slightly. “How old do you think we are? I’m 12!”  
“I’m 10.” Benny added helpfully.  
Kenneth held up four fingers, and Benny and Melanie deflated slightly. “Okay, yeah, Kenneth is a baby.” Melanie said.

“I’m not a baby!” Kenneth squawked indignantly.  
“Indeed, this is not a bedtime story for waylaid Amestrian babies.” Scar rumbled. “This is the story of the lost garden of the west. Now, the context is that for many in the west, Ishvala is not a creator deity. They are a deity of love and protection, and responsible for the creation of the country, but they did not create humanity, or the land that we live in. That is not where their power lies. Ask any questions you have about this now, or save them until the end.”

The children did not ask questions, and Scar took a deep breath. “Long ago, when the world was still deciding what it was, Ishvala walked the earth. Not quite a person, not quite a god, they set out to find a purpose for themselves from the desert that they were created in. And they walked a good way, sand nearly burying them many times. A human would have died. A god would never have gotten buried in the sands, would have found their purpose already. And thus, Ishvala walked on—trying to find their purpose. At last, they came to a series of great, high, stone walls. They walked around, trying to find a door, before a rope was lowered from the top. Before Ishvala could climb it, two people slid down.”

“’Who are you?’ Ishvala asked the people.  
‘Who are you?’ They replied. ‘We will not work for him any longer!’  
‘But there’s nothing but desert out there. You could die.’ Ishvala told them.  
‘I would rather take my chances.’ The first said, but the second hesitated. ‘You still haven’t told us who you are.’ And Ishvala explained that they were Ishvala, and learned in turn that they were Kafele and Hasina; a dancer and a blacksmith respectively. They lived inside the great stone walls, and had fallen in love. However, they worked for a cruel master, and had tried to escape into the desert when they had met Ishvala. Ishvala convinced them to climb back up the rope for the moment, for Ishvala wished to see if their purpose lay within, and Kafele and Hasina would not let them go alone. So all three climbed up the rope together.”

Melanie raised her hand, and Scar sighed. “Yes?” …he was only referring to these children by their names as a way of distinction. There wasn’t anything to differentiate them, after all. He wasn’t good with children anyway, they were probably already staring out into the sand--  
“Which one was the blacksmith and which one was the dancer?”  
“Hasina was the blacksmith. Kafele was the dancer.” Scar said. “Hasina was the one who wanted to leave at all costs—Kafele was the one who was scared, because he had gotten Hasina with child, and his type of bravery didn’t extend to watching the woman he loved die in childbed in the desert.”  
Melanie nodded slowly, and Scar continued.

“As Ishvala peered over the edge of the wall, the first rays of the sun hit the garden. And oh, it was a beautiful, fertile land. Ishvala slowly walked around as Hasina and Kafele went home to get what sleep they could. People began to emerge, smiling, laughing, talking to one another as they began to harvest from the garden for the day. They greeted Ishvala with interest—there had never been a stranger before! But then, as if a great storm cloud rolled over the land, everyone stopped smiling and looked away. For the owner of the garden was there—he towered over Ishvala, with the face of a monster. This was a djinn, an evil being of great power.”

“’Who are you, and what are you doing in my garden?’ He demanded.  
‘I am Ishvala, and I am here to find my purpose.’ Ishvala replied. The djinn swung out at them, and Ishvala went flying into a fruit tree. It would have killed a human, but Ishvala was not human. They stood, and said, ‘I have found my purpose now. In three days, I will break your walls, and your kingdom. And these people will go free.’  
‘Ha! You could not land a blow on me!’  
‘I will not fight you in hand to hand combat. But you cannot kill me, and I cannot hurt you, so we are at an impasse.’  
And the djinn grew afraid, because it had long since been foretold that his end would not come in battle. To hide his fear, he turned away and scoffed. ‘If you are not out of my garden in three days, we will see if I cannot kill you, _puny god_.’ And then he returned to his glittering, golden castle.”

“The first day, Ishvala sat with each person in the garden, and learned their stories. They learned how each person came to be there, and whether they actually wanted to leave. Many were afraid. The djinn was cruel, and hurt them, but the outside world was scary. Many had never seen it. Ishvala then went to the home of Kafele and Hasina.  
‘You have found your purpose now, you should leave.’ Kafele said to Ishvala. ‘It is not safe for you here.’  
‘Ah, but my purpose is to protect people, and I cannot leave you all like this.’ Ishvala replied.  
‘Why protect them if they do not even want to be saved?’ Hasina demanded. ‘We will die, and nothing will change!’”

“’Nothing will change anyway if we do not protect one another.’ Ishvala said. ‘Even if they did not ask, they still need us. And I need the two of you. Hasina, can you please forge me an item of power?’  
‘What do you need?’ Hasina asked.  
‘I need you to forge me a key, and a lock. But the finest in the world. Can you do that for me?’  
Hasina nodded, because her anger came from feeling helpless. Such a task was Good, and redirected her anger into purpose.  
‘Kafele, I have not forgotten you. I need you to do something for me as well. I need you to distract the djinn from Hasina’s work.’ Ishvala said.  
And Kafele agreed, because his cowardice did not extend to letting others, especially Hasina, be hurt. And thus, the first day passed.”

“The second day, Hasina only worked on the key and the lock. Ishvala went around and cut the hair of every person inside the walls, and started weaving it together. The djinn, meanwhile, stomped and screamed around his palace, throwing dishware everywhere. Many things broke, or bent, or were otherwise destroyed, because the djinn was a creature of anger. And Kafele tried to distract him, and so he threw Kafele as he threw Ishvala—this time, out of the palace fully. When Kafele awoke, Ishvala was standing over him. ‘Get up.’ Ishvala told him.  
‘I cannot—he broke my back!’ Kafele said. ‘How am I even alive?’  
Ishvala offered him a hand. ‘Because I know it isn’t your time yet. Stand, Kafele, because I have tended your wounds and guarded your spirit.’ And Kafele was able to stand, and walk, however shakily, home, where Hasina continued her work throughout the night, and Ishvala continued braiding the hair until it was a long, long rope.”

“On the third day, the djinn emerged from his palace. Ishvala had tied two ends of the rope to the lock, and the rope was now pressed against the walls by the people.  
‘Stop!’ Roared the djinn. ‘I command it!’  
And the people were afraid, but they held firm, because it was okay to be afraid. And Ishvala turned the key in the lock, Instantly, all the walls began to crumble. The djinn charged Ishvala, who dodged out of the way. And the walls fell. The garden was laid bare, and the magic that the djinn had hoarded began to seep out, turning the desert into land, but not as fertile and rich as the garden. There was a lot of life that had been hoarded, and it was all gone.  
‘Do we run?’ Kafele asked, wincing as the djinn noticed him.  
‘No, we have nothing to be ashamed of.’ Ishvala replied. ‘We do not run like thieves in the night. You, djinn, will you stop here?’”

“’The only thing I’ll stop is your stupid escape attempt!’ The djinn roared. But it was too late. With his magic gone, with the lock and key that Hasina had forged with her love and concern, with Kafele’s bones remade with Ishvala’s blessings and protection so that he could try and protect his family, with the rope that Ishvala had braided from the hopes and dreams of all of the people there… there was more love than fear in the garden. And this robbed the djinn of his power. Without his power, he faded away into nothingness, and the people went free. And thus ends the tale.” Scar said with finalty.

“I liked that you did the voices.” Kenneth said. “Daddy’s not good at voices when he tells stories.”  
“Why didn’t they just fight the djinn?” Benny asked.  
“Because that’s not the point. I… it’s impossible to truly fight hate with more hate. It took me a while to learn that myself.” Scar admitted.  
“Why did Ishvala go have Kefale get hurt?” Melanie demanded.

“Kafele.” Scar corrected. “And they did not.”  
“They did, the djinn didn’t even go looking for Hasina!” Melanie huffed.  
Scar ground his teeth. “The djinn did not go looking for Hasina because Kafele was dancing to distract him. Ishvala did not intend for Kafele to get hurt. For clarity’s sake, the part where the djinn made to go to Hasina’s forge was cut, and all the distractions that Kafele employed to keep him from doing so. Ishvala was only gaining power at the time, mind, and they could only act to protect and heal others. They were not clairvoyant. They needed to braid the rope. Kafele’s entire _job_ was to distract the djinn, that’s who he danced for. But Kafele tried to stop the djinn, because it would have been his love and potential babe flying out the door instead of him. It was foolish, but it was an act of true sacrifice. That is why Ishvala honored him with unbreakable bones afterward.”

Also, the part of the story where Kafele had distracted the djinn was… well, it had _multiple variants_ , and had been a source of much scholarly debate. Kafele wasn’t a dancer in every story. And in some _very prurient and disrespectful_ variants that Scar had stumbled across in his youth, he hadn’t distracted the djinn via dancing. Those stories, which were blasphemy of the highest order (seared into his head for eternity, but he couldn’t remember the fucking _moral_ of the story until the Rockbell girl basically said she wouldn’t kill him, what a fine monk he was) usually also featured Hasina as a male blacksmith named Hasani. This was so that there would be the parallels between the Good Lover and the Bad Lover without saying that the bad lover was bad for being homosexual.

There had been some very tender scenes that apparently Ishvala had nearly walked in on. As an acolyte, Scar had dropped the texts as if burned, and his master had laughed at him. “Jumoke, love is natural, and a part of Ishvala.” “But Master, how—it’s the parents of the nation, I shouldn’t be thinking about _them_ doing _that_!” More laughter had ensued, but his master had understood. Even if he _had_ smiled at him, and told him that he should interact with people his own age outside of his studies. A few ribald jokes wouldn’t do him wrong, said his master. Clearly, he had needed to study the texts _more_ , because he set off on a years long quest for revenge—

He was jolted out of his thoughts by Melanie Brosh saying, “Okay, I guess. Um… sorry.”  
Scar shrugged. “There is a difference between malicious intent and asking questions. People have said worse.”  
“You’re not going to stop telling stories, will you?” Benny asked worriedly. “It was a really good story!”  
“…no. I’m not going to stop.” Scar said. Maybe he _did_ have a soft spot for children. “But you must realize that Ishvala is not to blame for the actions of the villains of the stories. Everyone is responsible for their own actions, and whether they choose to help or hurt others.”  
Melanie nodded slowly.

“I know _that_.” Kenneth said, exasperated.  
“Do you? It’s a lesson I learned well into adulthood.” Scar said, turning his head away from the children. It’s not like his heart felt “I am glad that you are wiser than me. And I am glad that _you_ are questioning the world around you. Many times, peoples’ intentions are less than perfect.”  
Melanie relaxed.  
“What about me? Are you proud of me?” Benny demanded.

“I just met you.” Scar replied.  
“So?” Benny asked.  
“…yes, I am proud of you as well.” Scar said.  
Benny gave him a gap-toothed grin.

“Do you have any more stories?” Kenneth asked.  
“Maybe not.” Scar said.  
“That’s okay. I know a story.” Kenneth said. “Once upon a time, Momma got ‘rrested for _murder_ —wait, no, I gotta start before that. Okay, do you know who Edward Elric is?”  
“Unfortunately.” Scar grumbled.  
“’kay, so, once, there was this guy named Scar who was a bad man who wanted to hurt Edward Elric, so Momma and Daddy were sent to guard him. And Edward Elric didn’t want to be guarded, so he snuck off to a laboratory where they were conduc-conduct-condo… Melanie?” Kenneth turned away from Scar to look at his aunt, missing the look on Scar’s face.

“Conducting.”  
“Conductin’.” Kenneth agreed, before resuming his story that he was almost definitely too young to know.  
“And _then_ Mr Mustang pretended to kill Momma so she’d stop bein’ arrested…” Kenneth continued blithely.  
“Yes, I read about her death in the paper.” Scar muttered. “Oh, look, we’re nearing our campsite of Xerxes. I’ll have to relive those days some other time.”

“You were there too?” Benny asked, excited.  
“Of course he was! He’s _old_.” Melanie scoffed.  
“This is a very charming conversation, but I think you should wander off and find Kenneth’s parents now.” Scar snapped.  
“Are you mad at us?” Benny asked.  
“…sorry I called you old.” Melanie muttered, realizing her mistake a little too late.

Scar sighed. “It’s not… I… I suppose I’m angry at myself. Before the promised day, I didn’t think I’d live to… become the monster in children’s stories.”  
“Whaddya mean?” Kenneth asked.  
“I am Scar. The one your parents were protecting Edward Elric from.”

“But you’re nice! You told us a story!” Benny protested.  
“Yes. But I was also angry and misguided.”  
“Like the djinn?” Kenneth asked.  
Scar bowed his head. “Exactly like that. I was furious at what had happened to my people—including, if not especially, my family—and I swore vengeance upon all state alchemists. Even Edward Elric, who had not been involved in the war. I am not proud of attacking him, or any of them, really. I am not proud of giving in to anger and hatred. But… I cannot bring myself to be upset that the men I did kill are gone.”

The children absorbed this in silence.  
Kenneth leaned over towards Scar, and Benny placed a tethering hand around his waist.  
“I’m proud of you.” Kenneth said, managing to graze the outside of Scar’s cloak when he seemed to have been trying to pat his hand.  
“Thank you.” Scar said softly. “It’s been a while since anyone has said that to me.”


	2. How Children Came to Be-- Winry Rockbell-Elric and Edward Elric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> STARRING 
> 
> Scar (name redacted) as THE NARRATOR   
> Akil/that kid who stopped Edward from being held hostage last time he came to Xerxes as THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE   
> Winry Rockbell-Elric as THE AUDIENCE   
> Edward Elric as THE GUY SPYING ON EVERYBODY 
> 
> and INTRODUCING Paolo, the only named OC in this chapter as THE GUIDE MENTIONED OFFHAND AT THE BEGINNING OF THE LAST CHAPTER

Scar didn’t have a problem with Xerxes.   
He didn’t have a problem with Brosh, or his wife Ross.   
While the Broshes marked out a campsite with the guide (he hadn’t bothered to learn this one’s name), he went with Miles to the Ishvalan community. Life was coming back to the city.

The only problem was, he wasn’t sure which one was distrusted more—Miles, with his military uniform, or him, given the stares and whispers.   
“May we call an assembly, and talk to your local elder?” Scar bowed halfway.   
“Go get Madame Shan.” Someone said, as Miles and Scar followed a young man to a pavilion where people began to file in, sitting on broken columns and more recently constructed stands.

Madame Shan was a small, ancient woman with one eye, supported by a young man. She gazed at Miles dispassionately, then her eye widened when she saw Scar and his arm.   
“You’re the one who killed the Drs. Rockbell!” The boy yelled.   
“Akil!” The woman hissed, stepping in front of him. “Get back!”

“Grandmother—” The young man began, before Scar sighed, and tucked his hands behind his back. “I did, yes. I regret that action.”   
Miles elbowed him, and Scar elbowed him back, before continuing. “I… suppose… we could talk about it if you want, but it isn’t why we’re here.”   
“Why is your friend wearing a military uniform?!” Someone called.

Scar elbowed Miles.   
“I worked to change the military from the inside following the genocide.” Miles said loudly. “Currently, my red-eyed brother and I are working to restore our holy land’s rights. We wanted to know if you wanted to come back.”

There was stunned silence for a minute, before the pavilion interrupted into sound.   
Scar rolled his neck to give Miles an annoyed look while maintaining the most amount of apathy possible.   
Madame Shan banged her cane to recover silence. “What other information do you have for us?”

“He has pamphlets.” Scar said awkwardly.   
“I have copies in Amestrian common and in Ancient Ishvalan.” Miles agreed. “I won’t lie to you—it’s not perfect. We’re fighting for every scrap of our cultures and our lives back to what it was before the war. And of course, there’s still a significant Amestrian population, but… a lot of other survivors have come back. We’re rebuilding. We’ll be able to get it back someday, for our children, and our children’s children.”

“Are you going to force us to leave, soldier? What about your tattooed friend there?” Someone in the crowd demanded.   
Scar sighed. “No one’s going to force anyone to do anything. For example, I’m not going to force forgiveness for that—it was wrong, and I accept the consequences of that action. But… don’t disregard the rebuilding of our homeland just because of me.”   
“…the desert here is much like the desert of home.” Shan said. “I have no doubt some will want to stay. What are your names?”

“Bakari Miles.”   
“An Amestrian name.” Shan raised her one eyebrow.   
Miles took off his stupid goggles that were not fooling anyone, in Scar’s opinion. “I have Ishvalan blood on my grandfather’s side. He was from the south-east.”   
Madame Shan made a small noise of understanding—she did seem old enough to remember the different cultures of Ishval. The south-east had a tendency to take surnames from the mother instead of the father, since they were more matriarchal than the rest of Ishval. Besides, you were more likely to prove relation to the mother, provided the baby had come out of her body instead of being adopted in. Or carried by the father, but Scar had never really thought about how that worked in the south-east.

Idly, Scar mused about whether or not these people were from the south-east. Probably not, but still.   
“And you?” Madame Shan asked him.   
“Grandmother!” The young man supporting her hissed. “Don’t get too close.”   
Scar blinked slowly. “It’s easier to make a monster when you don’t know their name.”   
“I can quote the book too, child. That’s why I’m asking.”

“I… I am fine with being a monster.” Scar said softly. “I deserve it, after all. You’re right to be angry with me.”   
Madame Shan considered this. “You do not even have enough pride left in you to speak your name?”   
Scar could practically _feel_ Miles eyeing him. “I… don’t deserve the honor.”   
“Ishvala is not about deserving, child.” Madame Shan said softly.   
“Jumoke Elmahdy.” Scar nearly whispered.

Madame Shan gave him a small smile. “And I forgive you, Jumoke Elmahdy.”   
Scar bowed low. “I am honored, elder Shan.”   
She patted his head gently, before turning to Miles. “Can you please give us your sales pitch?”   
“Right, yes—brother, I can… distribute pamphlets and field questions if you want. If you need.” Miles said awkwardly, before clearing his throat and looking towards the assembled people.   
“Perhaps you should go to the western half of the city.” Madame Shan said. “Akil—show the man around the old library.”

The young man stared at her. “You can’t… Grandmother!”   
Madame Shan winked—or maybe blinked, Scar wasn’t really sure. “Forgiveness heals us all, Akil.”   
“Grandmother—she’s _pregnant_!” The young man hissed.   
Scar had a terrible feeling he knew who the boy was talking about. Oh, good, he’d have Fullmetal flitting about like an overprotective hummingbird.

“This really isn’t necessary…” Scar tried.   
The young man eyed him suspiciously, before it segwayed into a Look. Apparently he got to protest having Scar near Winry, but not Scar himself. Which—fine, fair, that made sense. Scar looked at Miles for help, but he only looked amused. Stupid Miles. The old woman was also giving him a Look; one that said, yes, she was apparently from the south-east, and _yes_ , she was the boss here, and you better do what she says because even she doesn’t know the consequences if you disobey her. Scar gave her a Look back; one that said he wasn’t scared of any old woman and he wouldn’t let her push him around.

…naturally, he ended up following the boy. A few paces back, because he was mildly worried that the boy would try to lead him off into the desert to die alone—which, again, fair, but still. He was keeping his eyes on his surroundings.

Funnily enough, the young man did actually lead him into a building. Scar was still worried about being ambushed, but more by the Fullmetal child than any wrathful Ishvalan youths. And—yes, there in the middle of the room was Mrs. Elric nee Rockbell, sitting next to a fire, tinkering with a small bit of metal. Scar looked around the room—a high ceiling stretched farther than he could see, and there were several broken balconies jutting out. No sign of the Fullmetal pipsqueak—no, wait, he could vaguely hear muttering and see the edges of a light from up on one of the balconies.

The young man who had escorted him there gave him a pointed look to stay put, then slowly walked forward. “Mrs. Elric?”   
Her face lit up upon seeing him. “Akil, hi! How are you?”   
“I’m good, but… don’t be alarmed, okay?”   
“Alarmed?” Her forehead crinkled in confusion.

Scar took this as a cue to walk out of the shadows, raising a hand in greeting.   
Mrs. Not-Rockbell brightened upon seeing him. “Hey, Scar! You’re headed to Xing too?”   
Scar nodded, and sat down across the fire from her.   
“You know him?!” The young man demanded.

“Yeah, for about five years now.” Mrs. Pretty-Much-Still-Rockbell confirmed, turning back to her tinkering.   
“And… you forgave him?” The Ishvalan boy gasped.   
Her eyes turned hard, and she screwed something into her metal project a little _too_ hard. “No. I don’t. He knows I’ll never forgive him. But… that doesn’t mean I have to let that hate and anger live in me. That doesn’t mean it’s something he regrets, something he’s moved past as a person. And… if he’s moved past it, I deserve to try as well. For me. Does that make sense?”

“Perfect sense.” Scar rumbled. “What are you working on?”   
“Oh, it’s… it’s an add-on for Ed’s leg. I… we’re giving Lan Fan a similar thing for her arm, that’s where I got the idea.” Mrs. Not-Rockbell beamed at him.   
The boy sat down on another side of the fire, almost between them.

“HEY, WINRY!” Scar heard Fullmetal screech. “There’s another part of the library—this one’s got paper things that haven’t turned to dust—closed off!”   
“Be careful with them, Ed! They’re priceless bits of history!” Mrs. Not-Rockbell yelled back, before sighing and rubbing her stomach.

Scar eyed the… it seemed impolite to think of it as a ‘bulge’, but… it was, wasn’t it? Especially on her slim frame—it looked like an alien had attached itself to her.   
“It’s almost your time, isn’t it?” The youth asked softly.   
Mrs. Not-Rockbell-Girl gave him a grin. “I’ve got another few weeks, if you can believe it. I almost wish that Mei’d induce labour and get it _out_ , you know?”

Neither of the men could relate, and they glanced at each other awkwardly.   
Mrs. Maybe-he-should-call-her-ms.-or-is-that-too-intimate-he-doesn’t-really-have-time-to-consider-this-right-now laughed. “No, I guess not, huh? You don’t have any kids.” She rubbed her abdomen gently.   
Scar and the younger Ishvalan eyed each other awkwardly.

“Oh!” Mrs. Let’s-Just-Say-Elric exclaimed, continuing this very one sided conversation. “I still have your charm. I keep it with me all the time.”   
Scar felt strangely warm. “That’s good. You’re prepared.”   
“Do you know the story of how Ishvala gave us children?” The boy blurted out.

“No, I don’t.” She replied cheerfully.   
The boy looked at Scar, almost challenging him.   
“The south-eastern story?” Scar asked gruffly.   
The boy nodded, almost defiantly. “My grandmother told me. She never forgot her roots. Never forgot the morals.”

Scar leaned back slightly. “Alright. You take the voices of the people.”   
The boy raised an eyebrow. _You think you’re better than me?_ (Yes. No. Maybe? Scar’s feelings about himself at this point weren’t really relevant.)  
“I’m a monk.” Scar grumbled. “I know the stories.”

The boy nodded once, and started clapping. _One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.  
_ “Long ago, Ishvala carved their people from clay. And it was good.” Scar began. _One, two, three, four_. “But the people were carved, fully formed, and they began to age. And they said…”   
Scar took over the clapping as the boy spoke. _One-two-three._ “Ishvala, our creator, who will take care of the land when we are gone? Who will come to power? Will you simply carve the earth again and again?”   
“And Ishvala spoke back.” Scar said, before he and the boy said together, “No, my children. Do you know what I’ll do?” _One-two-three… one, two, three, four_. The clapping fell back into the previous rhythm, with the boy clapping alone.

“And Ishvala took them all, and gave them all wombs. And from there, tiny humans grew quickly—immediately dropping out of the wombs and springing, almost adult-like, to the ground. And this happened relentlessly.”   
_One, two, three, four._  
“And so, the tiny ones were put to work, almost as slaves. And Ishvala saw this, and took away the children. And so, again, the people came to Ishvala.”   
_One-two-three._  
The boy spoke again. “Ishvala, why have you taken away the children?”

Together, they spoke. “Because they were not children to you. Because they were slaves, and I cannot tolerate that.”   
The boy spoke alone again. “Then do not make them slaves.”   
_One-two-three… one-two-three-four._  
“And so, the people were given back children. This time, more similar to the babies we know. But they were just as plentiful, and people had them all the time. But because they could not put them to work, they used them as currency. Some people wrote messages on them in washable ink, or used their baskets to prop open doors. And then Ishvala took away the babies again, because they were not being loved. So, the people came to Ishvala again.”

 _One-two-three._  
“Ishvala, why have you taken away the children?”   
Ishvala spoke with the voice of many. In many tellings, there would be several people chiming in, at the very least. They would have to make do with two, and echoes. …this was not the time for philosophy.   
“Because they were not children to you. Because they were things, and I cannot tolerate that. They were not loved.”   
The boy spoke alone. “Then make them loved. Make us love them.”

“And Ishvala wept.” Scar said softly.   
_One-two-three_.   
“I don’t think you know what love is.” They said together as Ishvala.   
_One-two-three_.   
“We do, but we cannot love them when there are so many. When you take them away so quickly.”

 _One-two-three..one, two, three, four_.   
The boy continued clapping to the rhythm, while Scar spoke. “And they left. And Ishvala sat, alone, before they took up a cloak of darkness, and went to the people. And half of them had their wombs taken away, and so no one could make a baby alone anymore. And the babies would stay for a time within the womb so that the parents would grow to love them. But Ishvala warned them.”

 _One-two-three.  
_ “Children are a gift, as are the wombs that I have given you to carry them. There will not be a third time that I forgive you.”   
_One-two-three… one, two… one, two… one… two…_  
As the clapping slowed, Scar said, “And thus, since that day, children and those that carry them are considered the gifts they are. And we, as a people, have not yet angered Ishvala to take them back. And it is good.”

The boy stopped clapping, and Mrs. Not-Rockbell burst into applause. “That was amazing! Hey, thank you for sharing that with me.”   
“Hrmm.” Scar gave her a nonchalant look, but unfortunately, his resting face was really close to his glares. He should make his glares more menacing…

“These are stories that are meant to be told, and shared.” The boy said. “Usually, they’re meant to have a lot more rhythm and people telling them. Ishvala is meant to be many.”   
“ _But_ a single person, or two, can still share stories.” Scar said gruffly. “…and you kept the rhythm well, boy.”   
The boy looked like he was torn between accepting the praise, eager to prove himself, and glaring at Scar. It came out as more of a grimace than anything else. “…my grandmother was a priestess, before she moved with my grandfather to Kanta.”

The girl rubbed her stomach gently. “Did she give it up?”   
“No. She just got a promotion.” The boy flashed a quick smile.   
Scar eyed him, but said nothing. A priestess traveling around the area giving blessings _was_ a step up from an acolyte, but she was more likely tied to her own traditions than those of Kanta. … _his_ traditions. Maybe Miles would get some of her traditions from her before she died. The stories were all shared, but the individual traditions, and cultures of the other provinces… he couldn’t rebuild a holy land alone.

He was distracted by movement in the shadows, and he _grabbed_ —only to find the Elric boy dangling by his wrist.   
“Put me down, Scar!” No-Longer-An-Alchemist-And-Never-Really-Fully-Metal yelled.   
Scar put him down. “I thought you might be someone else.”

“Ed! You’re supposed to be reading!” The wife huffed.   
Quarter-metal crossed his arms. “I made up a lie and snuck back when I heard people enter. I wasn’t just going to leave you _alone_.”   
“I wasn’t alone!” The mechanic huffed. “And you _know_ that.”

The Elric boy scoffed. “It’s a big place, full of rocks and stuff. What if you tripped? What if you got hurt? What if you went into labor?”   
“I’m not made of glass, Ed!” The wife said. “And I’m not going to let you shove me into a corner at Ling and Lan Fan’s wedding like you did at Riza’s!”

This was an excellent time for Scar to leave—he had seen everything.   
“What was wrong with that?! We went—we saw everybody—this isn’t just about you, you know!”   
Vaguely, he considered grabbing the priestess’ grandson, but that might draw attention. No, it was every man for themselves when it came to awkwardly witnessing marital fights. Also, he was already standing up.

It would be child’s play to sneak out the d—oh, there was someone else there. Scar, instinctively, grabbed for them again. Maybe it was the reflexes of an Ishvalan warrior monk, maybe it was from living life on the run for five years that he hadn’t felt quite went away _these_ last five years. Maybe it was from surviving a war.

Regardless, another man’s wrist was now dangling from his hand. He looked familiar, with tanned skin and brown curls.   
The man grimaced. “Hello.”   
“You were our original guide to Xing.”   
“Yes. My name is Paolo. …can you put me down now?”

Scar did not put him down. “Why are you here? I thought your grandmother was sick.”   
Paolo looked insulted. “I never said she was sick! I said that the man who had originally been her betrothed had left her at the altar, pregnant with my father. He got her with a bastard—dishonored her! But he finally resurfaced, and since I was the man of the family, I needed to duel him for her honor.”   
“Yet you’re in Xerxes.”

“…yes, that was a lie.” Paolo admitted. “Mr. Elric offered me a lot more money.”   
“Hrrm.” Scar finally dropped him. “We’re linking our caravans.”   
“WHAT?” Quarter-metal yelled. “You can’t make that decision without asking us!”   
“I have no interest in listening to the Brosh children recount more of the events leading up to the promised day.” Scar said. “Talking to adults as we go along should be more interesting, at least.”

“Then talk to their parents!”   
“Miles monopolized them for military matters.” Scar said. He noticed that the Ishvalan boy had finally run off somewhere, content that Quarter-metal could protect his own wife.   
“We’d be happy to join you guys.” Mrs. Quarter-metal said, before elbowing her husband sharply.   
Paolo looked marginally more upset than when Scar had been grabbing him at the thought of losing part of his commission, and sharing it with the current guide. Or maybe he was gassy—Scar hadn’t really paid attention to guiding-someone-to-Xing etiquette regarding guides or passengers being poached.

Regardless, Scar led Quarter-Metal and his mechanic paid solely in joint insurance and tax benefits back to the camp, with Paolo trailing behind them. The Broshlings were enamored with The Real Fullmetal Alchemist In The Flesh, and Miles had given out most of his pamphlets when he returned, so he was in a good mood.

So. All things considered, it wasn’t a bad day.   
“Where’d you find Paolo?” Miles asked when all baggage had been collected, the children sent to bed, and the adults clustered off in small groups to talk.   
“Ruins of a Xerxein library.” Scar replied.   
“Hm.” Miles replied. “Do you think he’s trustworthy?”

Scar held out his hand, and Miles pressed a cold bottle into it. Scar did not usually ask about the bottles, or how they remained cold. They were, however, Miles’ private stash of beer, and only he knew where he hid them. But—he was willing to _share_ if asked, and usually took out a bottle for them each in the evenings anyway. At least this stupid trip hadn’t changed that.

“I think he’s a dramatic son of a bitch. Likes money. …did you really believe the thing about the grandmother?” Scar took a sip of his drink.   
“He’s a dramatic man.” Miles shrugged, sipping his own. “Stood to reason the rest of his family was dramatic too.”   
“Why’re you asking me if I think he’s trustworthy if you obviously don’t believe him?” Scar demanded, because he knew a non-answer when he heard one.   
Miles paused, right before taking a sip. “Because you’re good with people.”

Scar scoffed. “I think I would have preferred the lie where you believed he had to avenge his grandmother.”   
Miles smiled at him. “What about those children you were talking to on the way here?”   
“They ingratiated themselves. I merely kept them quiet.” Scar huffed.   
“Hmm.” Miles said, in a tone that clearly said, ‘I don’t believe you, but I’m not going to push it.’ “You never answered my question. Trustworthy?”

Scar shrugged. “He seems alright. …reminds me a bit of Yoki. A clown, but ultimately harmless.”   
“Hmm.” Miles repeated. “I agree.”   
He stood, took a swig of his drink, then looked at Scar. “You know, you’re not a monster.”   
“I know.” Scar huffed.   
“Hmm.”   
“Is that all you know how to say?” Scar demanded.

Miles shrugged. “Well, I picked it up from you. I’ve never met a man who says so much and so little at the same time. Good night, my red-eyed brother.”   
And then he walked off, leaving Scar to choose whether to go to bed and drink his beer alone (which would be Sad Drinking and Wallowing which he refused to do) or to join the other adults.

Scar drank his beer as quickly as possible so it could not be considered Sad Drinking and went to bed, taking the third option.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how long it takes to get to Xerxes. Let's assume Scar and Miles had been having their desert debate for a few days before joining up with the Brosh family. _For a nominal fee, of course._
> 
> It is apparently canon that Denny Brosh has 5 younger siblings that he's responsible for, though only two were seen in FMAB. (Those two were the ones I've named Benny and Melanie, actually...)


End file.
